Chapter 18 Liam #2
A cold wind cut across the quad. I shoved my hands in my hoodie pocket and walked faster.
I still wanted him.
That was the pathetic part. After the fight.
After please go. After maybe this was a mistake.
After all of it—my body still knew his. Still oriented toward him like a compass.
Still replayed the sound of his voice saying my name in the dark of his dorm room, the weight of his back against my chest, the way his hand had found mine and held on.
I hated it.
Hated that wanting him was the one thing I couldn't outwork or outrun or stuff into a box and bury.
I could row until my lungs bled. I could ignore his texts.
I could perform indifference so convincing even Remy couldn't crack it.
.. sometimes. But lying in bed at night with his hoodie on my chair—I couldn't perform my way out of that.
And I was angry.
Because he called me a mistake. Said the word like it was a fact he'd been holding back, and once it was out there, hanging in the air between us, I couldn't unhear it. Couldn't unfeel it.
Mistake.
The thing was—he might be right. Maybe I was.
Maybe wanting someone who lived on the other side of everything was a mistake.
Maybe the kid from the south side of Brackett Lake had no business being in Alex Harrington's bed, in his car, in his life.
Maybe I'd been fooling myself into thinking the bridge between us was real when it was just another thing built by someone with more money than me that I was borrowing without permission.
My mom used to say don't fall in love with things you can't keep. She was talking about the boats at the marina—the rich people's toys we maintained all summer and never got to ride. But it applied to everything. The scholarship. The rowing. Alex.
Things that could be taken away.
He'd called me a mistake and the worst part wasn't that it hurt.
The worst part was that some voice in the back of my head—the one that sounded like every rich kid who'd ever looked through me, every coach who'd called me raw instead of talented, every person who'd ever made me feel like I was borrowing a life that wasn't mine—that voice said he's right.
You know he's right. You've always known.
That was the thing nobody told you about caring about someone who'd hurt you—you didn't stop. You just felt both things at once and hoped one of them would win.
I got back to the dorm. Dropped my bag on the floor and laid on my bed. No Noah.
Tomorrow. Photos. His face two feet from mine while a stranger pointed a camera at us.
My phone rang, and the screen said Mom.
I picked it up.
"Hey, Mom."
"Hey, baby." Her voice was warm. It was always warm.
"How's work?"
"Oh, you know. Same. Linda's been on my case about the holiday schedule. I told her I'd take Thanksgiving if she takes Christmas, but she wants both off, which—anyway. How are you? How's training?"
"It's good." Automatic. The answer I always gave. "Getting ready for a big race."
"The Head of the Charles." She said it casually.
My stomach dropped.
I didn't tell her.
"You know about that?"
A pause. The kind of pause my mother did when she was choosing between being gentle and being honest.
"Linda showed me something on her phone last week. At the store." Another pause. "You were on TV, Liam. After a race."
The regional. The interview the journalist had done at the boathouse after the invitational. I'd forgotten about it and I hadn't told her… I didn't even tell her about the regional.
"Mom—"
"You looked good. Really good. Your coach was talking about the program, about the double, about you and that blond haired boy." Her voice was steady but something underneath it wasn't. "I watched it three times on Linda's little screen in the break room."
"I was going to tell you—"
"Were you?"
The question sat between us. Not angry. Hurt. The specific hurt of a mother who'd been left out of something that mattered.
"I didn't want you to worry about coming. It's far. And you're working, and—"
"Liam." She cut through it the way she always did—not sharp, just clear. "You were on television. Talking about rowing. Looking like—" Her voice got thick. "Looking like someone who belongs there. And I had to find out from Linda Chen in the break room."
I pressed my palm against my eyes.
"I'm not saying I can be at every race. But a phone call? A text? 'Hey Mom, I'm racing this weekend, thought you should know'? That's free, baby. That costs nothing."
"I know."
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't want to be a burden," I said.
Silence on the other end. Long enough that I checked to make sure the call hadn't dropped.
"You're not a burden." Her voice was different now. "You're my son. My kid who works harder than anyone I've ever known. And I don't need you to protect me from being proud of you."
My throat closed.
"I've been watching you protect everyone your whole life," she said. "Your friends. Your teammates. Me. You carry things so nobody else has to. But baby—who's carrying you?"
I couldn't answer.
"You sound like you did after your father left," she said. Quieter. "Like you're holding something too heavy and pretending it weighs nothing."
The words landed in the exact place I'd been trying to cover. The place where Braden's parking lot lived, and Alex's dorm room, and the dead boat, and the fight.
"I'm okay, Mom."
"You're not. But that's okay too. When you're ready to tell me, I'm here. I'm always here. You know that."
"I know."
"And Liam?"
"Yeah?"
"The next time you're on TV, I want to know about it before Linda."
I laughed.
"Deal." I paused. Swallowed. "Actually—Mom?"
"Yeah?"
"I got an email today. There's a magazine. New England Rowing Magazine. They're doing a story on the program. On me and my doubles partner. Interview and photos on Thursday."
Silence. Then a sound I hadn't heard in a long time—my mother trying not to cry.
"A magazine?"
"Yeah. It's not like—it's a rowing magazine, not Sports Illustrated or anything—"
"My son in a magazine." She laughed through whatever was happening on her end. "Wait until Linda hears about this."
Something loosened in my chest.
"I'll send you a copy when it comes out," I said.
"You better. I'm putting it on the coffee table."
"Mom, you don't have to—"
"It's going on the table, Liam. Non-negotiable."
I smiled. For real.
"I love you," she said.
"Love you too, Mom."
"Get some sleep."
"You too."
The line went dead. I sat there. Phone in my hand. The screen going dark.
Then I lay back. Stared at the ceiling.
My mom's voice in my head: Who's carrying you?
I thought of Alex. I wanted it to be Alex.
The hoodie from Friday night was still on my chair. I hadn't washed it. It smelled like Alex's room—his soap, his cologne, and him.
I should wash it. Should stuff it in the laundry bag and take it down to the basement machines and erase the last physical evidence of that night.
I didn't.
Couldn't.
Wouldn't.
We had two days to fix our time so we could go to the Charles. The biggest race of my life. Scouts who could change everything. The boat that was dead because the person in it with me was three blocks and a river away, probably lying in a perfectly organized room, not sleeping either.
And between us—the silence. The stubborn, loaded silence of two people who were too proud or too scared or too broken to pick up the phone and say the only thing that mattered.
I'm sorry. I miss you. I don't know how to fix this. But I want to try.